


Prickles

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Control, Creative Reader, Dominance, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Mycroft Holmes is not boring in the bedroom, Mycroft needs patience and a sense of humour, Mycroft wants an emotional connection as well as the physical, Reader does not like cuddling, Realizations, Sexual References, challenging Reader, defence, experimental Reader, goose - Freeform, porcupine - Freeform, respect, selfish Reader, wounded pride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 07:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14612733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Mycroft wants both a physical and emotional relationship with you, but with you being so defensive and focused only on one aspect will he be able to smooth your prickles?





	Prickles

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all my supporters. Let's block out the hate and try and become more understanding of one another!

Mycroft is a little frustrated that day to tell you the truth. It isn’t even as if people have been more annoying than usual in work, technology hasn’t broken down and though he isn’t clocking off early it has been, as far as work is concerned, a tolerable kind of day. It is matters of home that are bothering him. More specifically matters of the _bedroom._

 

He’s never classed himself as being boring when it came to such things. He's always thought that he's been able to give people what they wanted, but you are so selfish and ironically it's you that he wants to be with more than those other people. You like to experiment, which at first, Mycroft admits, he’d found attractive-more than that. Quite often he’d get hard just from knowing that he would be going home soon. He’d enjoyed at first being on top and then the sight of you there. Taken pleasure when you’d both wrapped your legs around one another. Come early when you’d spanked him and caught him off guard. Clutched the bed sheets when, after his numerous apologies; you’d waved your hand and put your mouth around him, making him solid again. There was a limit though. Sometimes, if he were being truly honest with himself, the thought of just coming home and talking to you in bed, about your days, about _anything,_ was more appealing than you smiling naughtily and helping his hands push you against the wall. It wasn’t when he was just feeling tired either. It was more appealing sometimes to talk than to turn his back from getting undressed to see that you’d pulled out some new toy or other from the drawer. He’d done so once to see you not with a new toy, but with his umbrella instead and you’d looked as if you might be tempted to insert the point of it into a particular place. That had alarmed him for a number of reasons, not least because his umbrella actually contained a sword and gun and you had no idea such weapons existed. Maybe he’d look more attractive to you if he just told you about them? Whatever the case though he knows how odd just wanting to talk about things sounds and would feel afraid to voice it in the first place if he had anyone to confide in about the matter. He also worries that the way he feels means that the emotional connection isn’t there between you any more. That it is just about the physical. The first time you’d made love, which was what he’d definitely term it then and which was the first and only time that he’d been on top of you ironically, you’d shrugged away when he’d tried to nuzzle up to you afterwards. He’d said something like, _‘Oh,’_ and not tried to repeat his action, but the awkward half-smile that had been on your face as you’d turned your back to him had told him enough. You’d understood that you’d hurt him. He’d worried too that he’d done something wrong and though he hadn’t asked about it then, feeling too awkward by the sudden turn of events and like with all the mix of confusion and love flying about his body for you he needed more time just to work out how to phrase such a thing, he _had_ breached the subject when the two of you had been sat on the settee the following night. You didn't much like cuddling there either and perhaps he should have worked out that there wouldn't be any difference in the bedroom. You’d looked startled and caught off guard when he’d mentioned such a thing and had mumbled something in response, before you’d gotten up abruptly and stalked out of the room. Mycroft had felt sure that he’d hurt you and had been surprised himself when you’d been the one to encourage intimacy between you that night. He’d stopped you from sucking upon his Adam’s apple however, even though it was quite an effort to because he’d rather liked you doing so. Instead he’d forced out that perhaps before you went any further you should tell him what it was that he’d done wrong the previous night so that he didn't repeat it. He thought that he was doing the right thing and that you’d be pleased he was taking you into account, but you’d practically called him a spoilsport and accused him of going on about things. He’d been injured then, his pride wounded, even more so when instead of continuing what looked like a night of passion you’d gotten up to get a glass of water and said that he was so frustrating. He’d felt like releasing a desperate gasp and curled in on himself, his mind tinged blue with a worry and panic, a mite of depression too. Would you leave him? Were things destined not to work out between the pair of you? 

 

To his dismay things hadn’t gotten any better. There’d been times of course when he genuinely sensed love radiating from you-the way you looked just after you’d peaked-and how he’d bask in those times. Once he’d begun to pepper your face with kisses in a sort of feverish delight because of them, but you’d laughed. He’d thought it first from pleasure, but had quickly withdrawn when he’d realized that you were laughing _at_ him, not with him. His action must have spoken volumes for you’d apologized, but it hadn’t been enough to soothe him and for once he’d been the one to turn his back on you. You’d said, _‘Oh,_ Mycroft,’ as if it was just him being silly and overreacting about it all, but he’d pulled away when you’d touched at his shoulder. He’d decided there and then that he needed the patience of a saint to deal with you. Maybe even two of those holy beings, for you could be so cruel sometimes. The moot point of it all though is that for all the times you hurt him, both when you nip at his body unexpectedly and catch him off guard and for all your casual jibes he still wants to be with you. It is that on some days, which he finds most intolerable of all. 

 

Today is one of those times. Should he really want to put himself through such a thing? He’s got enough anxiety a lot of times with work without going home and experiencing it there too. Yet he _knows_ you’re not that way really. That beneath all those loathsome spikes, which shoot up when he least wants them to there is a fragile and vulnerable human being there who just wants, above all else, for someone to see that and stick by them. He knows that because he’s aware that sometimes he too can come off as cold and standoffish. Occasionally though, in his darker moments, he wonders what will happen to him if you really _are_ the way that he fears and he has been mistaken about it. Your barb of love has struck him now and he feels as if it is too far embedded for him to retreat. But will he regret not at least _trying_ to back away from you? No, he cannot leave you now. Still, that doesn’t stop him from feeling annoyed by it all. From how much he feels like he _tries_ compared to you. If trying meant planning activities in the bedroom then you’d clearly outperform him in that area, but in Mycroft’s mind trying means _more_ than that. It means talking and confiding and perhaps not being so quick to move away from him should his hand find your back when you’re out in public, of not making him feel small by accusing him later of being possessive when you get home, of, and though Mycroft doesn’t mind buying you things, coming home on the odd occasion to find that you have bought him flowers for once-he knows that they’re not a very manly thing to wish for, but he does know that he’d appreciate them if they were from you and muse over them with a wistful sigh for days on end. He'd like it if you cooked him a meal or even readied a cup of tea for him. He is past thinking though that you’ll go out to dinner unless he instigates it. Past thinking that you’ll buy a pretty new art work for the flat even though he’s told you to go ahead if you see anything that you like. You are in the trade after all, but you seem to find browsing more appealing and though he’s asked you why you don’t bring one home every time that you describe a vibrant piece to him you’re always quick to change the subject. He hopes that, that doesn’t mean you’re looking past him. At the moment, though he hates to think about it, he feels like some dirty escort or prostitute. Just about acceptable for sex, but not much else. He might as well be a bull out in the field. The thought pains him. You’d probably laugh if you heard him calling himself a bull and compare him to something that was less dominant. That frustrates him too. 

 

He walks up smartly to the door of the flat and unlocks it. The lights are on everywhere even though you’re nowhere in sight. He puts his briefcase and umbrella carefully off to the side and delays going to the bedroom. He uses the bathroom first-he deliberately hadn’t gone just before he’d left work for this express purpose-and even considers making himself a cup of tea. That is until he hears your voice in his head telling him to man up and approaches the bedroom, smoothing down his suit as he goes. Out of habit he half-catches sight of his hair in the mirror and pats at it. 

 

You though, are too occupied to care what he looks like. You’re underneath the covers already, your face the only thing that he can see in the half-light, peeking out, scrunched, eyes shut, whilst you writhe underneath the duvet like a glorious bug struggling free from its cocoon. Hands out of sight Mycroft can only imagine what you’re doing. The thought makes him hard _and,_ perhaps because he needs to vent and nothing else seems to be working he silently steps out of his shoes and socks. Padding across with his eyes fixed solely on you he is sure that you only finally sense him when he pulls part of the covering away. Your hand hesitates from where it’s dipped beneath your f/c lace panties. 

 

“Keep your eyes shut,” Mycroft commands, struggling with his own problem, as well as trying to work out what exactly to do with you. He is pleased when he sees you shiver. Kneeling on the bed he shrugs off his jacket and allows it to drop to the floor. If you like it hard and rough, he decides, then that’s exactly what you’re going to get. Then maybe you’ll finally be able to have an adult conversation about all this. Your breasts bounce a little at the sound of his jacket hitting the floor. He sees your fingers wriggle in anticipation and gently, but firmly covers them with his own. 

 

“Oooh,” you mutter, lost in the spell of it already. 

 

He guides your fingers to push your underwear aside and then places them by your throbbing slit. He observes the way that your parted lips close as you bite down. Likes the way that you shiver when you feel both your fingers and his pushing inside you. When you feel the coolness of his ring you moan-a gaping cry that you cannot control. 

 

“Eyes shut,” he reminds you sternly. Your body slumps back down again. 

 

He can feel his member pushing at his trousers as he feels how wet you are. It strains for release and he longs to give it the freedom it craves, but he needs to be the one who’s in control here. So, instead of letting go of one of your hands and pushing his past trousers and underwear to contend with his own desire he bites down on his lip and concentrates. He almost reaches the spot that is sure to have you arching off the bed, but guides your fingers instead to a place that’s just before it. When you try and touch yourself there all the more frantically and perhaps attempt to escape his grasp to finally reach where you want to, you mewl when he withdraws your hands forcefully. Your body pushes desperately up against his and when he is sure that you are about to open your eyes he covers your body quickly with his own, pinning it down. He hears your surprised exclamation and grinds his hips against yours painfully slowly. You whimper, getting more content, but not enough, for there is still fabric between you and only the shape of him. 

 

“This is what you like?” he murmurs. You nod. “Then I will give it to you.” He feels your body tense in anticipation, but still he does not make to undress any further. Instead his body just teases yours, harder and harder. He bites down an exclamation.

 

 _“More,”_ you urge, a moment before you release a gasp of pent-up exclamation and cling onto the back of his neck very hard. 

 

He feels you shuddering and releasing your climax, but does not give you time to enjoy it, instead undoing his trousers and underwear just enough to push into you violently, all at once. 

 

Your eyes open. 

 

“You should have waited,” he tells you, _cold._

 

You look at him in amazement and hurt, as he thrusts into you, for once not stopping when you’re ready and putting his own needs first. He meets your gaze steadily through it all, though it takes a steely kind of resolve for him to do so and pushes on and on until with a bow of his head he feels that white hot energy flow through him at last. He is in control enough to pull out and comes messily over his clothes and your stomach. You look disgusted with him. He feels ill himself a moment later. 

 

“You’re sick.” You escape from beneath him. 

 

“So what do you propose I do F/N?” Mycroft slumps sideways on the bed, trying to ignore his own doubts about it all. “Put you first all the time and get nothing in return?”

 

You’re half-attempting to dress and stagger to the bathroom. “Leave me then if you’re not happy.” You throw him a challenging look over your shoulder. 

 

“You don’t want that.”

 

_“Don’t I?”_

 

_“No.”_

 

You look with a stubborn rebellion his way. “Why then? Why don’t I want that?”

 

Mycroft sits up, everything tucked back away into his underwear once more, but with the fly of his trousers still undone. His hands fall down past his knees. “I don’t know what is the meaning for all this… _prickliness,”_ he finally settles upon, for it is as good a word as any, “Whether it is fear or otherwise, but I'm sure that even you with your voracious appetite would not want to make love to me, as much as you do, if you did not _truly,_ somewhere deep down, love me.” At least he really hopes that you do. 

 

“Wishful thinking.” Turned to him now you cross your arms, hoping it will barb him. 

 

He is stung yes, but for once he does not give up on the matter or let you go from the room. He senses, that if any progress is to be made on this issue, he has to persist with it. “Is it?” he queries, baiting you now with that raised eyebrow of his, which you find ever so annoying. 

 

 _“Yes,”_ you say pettily. 

 

“Whilst I doubt that you’ll refrain from telling me of whatever faults I have in the future I do wish you to know that you don’t always have to be ready for an argument. I don’t intend to go anywhere and I will certainly not leave you just because you keep slamming treacherous barbs into me.” He is certain now that he sees a flicker of relief in your eyes. “That being said however I wish you to respect me and perhaps, see it in yourself to make an exception now and again to give me something that you wouldn't usually”-you wrench open your mouth, about to ask what that might be-“A rare show of affection,” he fills in and you close your mouth again. Clearly you’d thought it would be more than that. “I do not need much my dear, but sometimes, as you no doubt need from me I require you to show that you love me. To _tell_ me.”

 

“I _do_ love you,” you protest. 

 

His eyes soften for the tiniest of moments. “That may be”- he begins. 

 

“Oh, but I do. Mycroft I do. Surely you cannot think-?” You look truly more agonized than he has ever seen you and at last he begins to think that you might understand the consequences of your actions. You hurry across and half-wrap an arm around his shirt-clad shoulder as you sit upon the bed facing him. _“I”-_ you look suddenly embarrassed. He cannot tell whether it is because of the haste you’d just shown and which you now think has made you look vulnerable or because you really _are_ ashamed of the way you’ve been treating him. Trying to make it easier for you nonetheless he fetches your hand from upon his shoulder and places it in between you, keeping his own above it. Both your fingers are still damp from your lovemaking and the pair of you chuckle about that for a moment. The unease between you broken you meet his eyes. “I do love you,” you say, and it is so firm and insistent and heavy with meaning that he cannot doubt it. “I'm sorry if I-I never meant…I was just protecting myself.” No, whatever you had been earlier you are ashamed now he realizes. 

 

“My dear I only want us to work.” His hand finds your jaw line and strokes at it. “I don’t mind all this… _experimenting”-_ you smile-“Truly I don’t, but I want there to be more than that too and I want you to take my feelings into account. Sometimes I feel like a”- he cannot say a ‘prostitute.’ He knows that would not make things any better between you and that you would surely leave the room in a furious strop because what would that then make you? He looks around and when his eyes settle on the drawer something solidifies within him and he blurts out, “One of your toys.” You look off put by that. Your eyes turn cloudy. He strokes at your jaw to try and appease you. “I did not enjoy the handcuffs. I appreciate my freedom as much as you do. Nor did I like the way you would not desist, no matter what I told you, until your needs were satisfied. You know that I could not achieve my own that night. The way you were frightened me. But that does not mean that I'm not willing to try certain things.” He lets go of you again. 

You stare at the bed and look quite upset with yourself. “I’ve treated you terribly haven’t I?” you finally say when Mycroft had grown certain that you would not say anything more that night. 

“I have not enjoyed it all the time, but then that’s what being in a relationship is all about I suppose.” You know that, that's not what being in a relationship is all about or what it _should_ be about. Things should be so much more than they have been and you stop snarling and running from that fact now. 

“Why don’t you leave me?” You look up at him now. Mycroft senses that more than ever you want him to stay. 

He decides to treat it all in an offhand manner. “Because I love you, you goose, though you can rather be more like a porcupine at times, prickling more than hissing at me. Getting ready to fire your barbs.” You snort much to his delight. Maybe this _can_ work. 

_“Porcupine…”_ You shake your head, before you grow more solemn as you come to fully be staring at him again. “I do love you,” you breathe, as to his delight you nudge him further across the bed and nuzzle into him, your head in between his and his shoulder, your hand tentatively finding its way across his chest and ruffling his shirt up a bit as it does so, so that you can hold onto him. “I don’t want you to go,” you say with a mournful quietness, which is perhaps the most honest thing that you have ever said to him. “For us not to be friends any more if we weren’t even this. I couldn't bear it.” 

“It’s a good job I’ve already decided on that front then isn’t it?” He pecks at your hair briskly now, before he attempts to wind a hand carefully around your shoulder to both steady you and draw you close. For once you do not protest or pull away from him. He lets out a breath of relief. He doesn’t know if you’ll always let him do such things and he senses that there will be days where your prickles will be back, but this is a start. Something important has happened tonight and for now that is enough. “Silly prickly, porcupine. I love you too,” he murmurs. 


End file.
